Out of Body Experience The Remote of Transformation chapter 8 by deleted_user

The world went silent. The scream that had just torn from his throat was high-pitched and unfamiliar. It didn’t sound like him. Mr. Walcott clapped his hands over his mouth, the motion feeling strange and uncoordinated, and the silence was broken only by the frantic beat of his heart. His hands... they were smaller, the skin smooth and without the familiar calluses from years of yard work and military drills. The nails were long and manicured. They weren't his hands.

He scrambled to his feet, his mind a whirlpool of fear and confusion. The lawn felt too close to his face. The world was too big. His sense of balance was all wrong. He stumbled back, his legs feeling wobbly and alien, and landed with a jolt against the wall of his house. The fabric of the tank top felt slick against his chest, and he looked down. The two mounds on his chest were real. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing, praying, that this was all a nightmare.

When he opened them again, the two mounds were still there. He reached out, his fingers tracing the outline of the breasts. They were firm and heavy, and the sensation of touch was overwhelming. His breath hitched. This was not a dream. This was real. A wave of nausea washed over him. He staggered, his head spinning, and stumbled to his front door. He had to get inside. He had to think. He fumbled with the doorknob, his fingers feeling clumsy and foreign, and finally managed to get the door open. He slammed it shut behind him and locked it, as if that would keep the new reality from crashing in.

He ran to the bathroom, his new hips swaying with an unnerving grace. He flipped on the light and stared into the mirror. A stranger stared back. A young woman, with a delicate face and a long, dark braid. But the terror in her eyes was his. Her mouth was open in a silent scream, and her hand was clutching her chest. He slowly raised a hand to his face, and her reflection did the same. Her skin was flawless, her lips full, her eyes wide with fear. But her eyes... they were his eyes. He knew them. They were the same eyes he’d stared into every morning for fifty-five years.

He backed away from the mirror, a strangled sob escaping his lips. He ran his hands over his body, a frantic, desperate exploration. He felt the curve of his waist, the smoothness of his hips. His belly was flat. His stomach, which had been a beer gut his whole adult life, was gone. His legs were long and slender. He ran his hands down his thighs, the muscles hard and defined, and then he felt something he’d never felt before: a smooth void between his legs. He fell to his knees, his mind screaming with a terror he’d never known. His body, which had been a familiar companion for a lifetime, was now a complete and utter mystery.

He had to get answers. He had to find Ethan. He scrambled to his feet, his heart hammering against his ribs, and ran to the front door, yanking it open. He had to know what happened. He had to find the kid who lived across the street, the kid who was too smart for his own good, the kid who had to be responsible for this. He had to find Ethan Quinn.